


Land of the Free

by UnchartedHeart



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gay Rights, Grief/Mourning, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Loss, M/M, Modern Era, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-12 23:42:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20164567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnchartedHeart/pseuds/UnchartedHeart
Summary: This is a little story I’ve had playing on my mind for a while.Alternative universe where Arthur accidentally time travels to the year 2019 while off adventuring.Written from the perspective of a male protagonist, because that’s what I am and that’s what felt right for the story.I plan on updating this work every few weeks.I’ve got some fun ideas to explore with Arthur in the 21st century and I hope you stick with me for the adventure.I’m working night shifts at the moment, so updates may be slow and sleep-deprived.I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy reading the fantastic works on here and spending some more time with our favourite cowboy.Dedicated to my teacher in school who told me many years ago - “Don’t stop writing.”I haven’t.





	Land of the Free

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta’d.  
All mistakes are mine alone.  
I don’t own anything except the story in my head and the feelings in my heart.  
Thank you to Rockstar for creating such an incredible character.

It starts off like any other day in New York. 

Your alarm goes off, loud in your claustrophobic apartment, and you snooze it for five minutes even though it’ll make you late. You drag yourself out of bed, sleepwalk to the bathroom, wash your face, decide you don’t have enough time to shave. You throw on your scrubs, grab a banana and dash out of the door. You queue for the subway train, ride it to work.

The grey hospital looms above you as it always does. As it always will.

You blink through your day, caring for your various patients, chew an overpriced salad for lunch, change some dressings, check your emails. Time passes slowly on the ward. You use your smartwatch to search for holidays abroad when your patients aren’t looking. You float through the day with the true lethargy of the disinterested.

Like I said, just like any other day in your life.

Until, it’s not.

It happens when you’re waiting on the subway home again, as you mind your own business on the edge of the platform, thumbing through the food delivery apps on your smartphone. You’re hungry for Thai food tonight. Maybe Lin’s would be nice.

At first you think you’re imagining it.

Out of the corner of your eye, you make out a tall, sandy-haired stranger, stumbling out of the subway tunnel. Eyes wide. Brown beard wild. Skin patchy with soot. Clothes so dirty you’re not sure what colour they used to be.

Maybe a handsome man, in a past life, probably before drink or drugs got to him.

You see him before the rest of the commuters. Certainly, no-one else looks up from their smartphones or e-readers. The scruffy stranger’s hands scrabble feebly on the side of the platform, no strength behind their grasp. He tries to lift himself up once, then twice. Fingernails finding no purchase on the cool concrete.

He just doesn’t have it in him.

You watch with a look of pure surprise. The universe just threw you a hell of a curveball. Who the hell walks down the subway tracks at rush hour in Brooklyn? You wonder vaguely if you should call 911. But you worry that you’ll have to accompany him back to the hospital. Maybe someone else will?

His eyes meet yours from under his Stenson hat. You can see icy fear in their green depths.

“Excuse me, partner,” the stranger rasps, in a sun-parched but unmistakably Southern drawl. He coughs, trying to clear the dust from his throat.

You look away, embarrassed like any 21st century citizen when faced with dereliction. He could be an alcoholic, a beggar, a crazy, a dangerous criminal.

And yet...

“Mister? Can you help a feller out?” His voice faltering, he falls back onto the tracks.

The rumble of an approaching subway train rattles the soles of your feet.

You remember vaguely the oath you swore to care for the sick and vulnerable.

_Oh, screw it._

You cross the platform in a flash, propelled by some mysterious force you didn’t know you had in you. Hands reaching down over the edge of the platform towards him. Some other commuters have taken notice of the events unfolding in front of them now. They stand mute, mouths agape in horror. Someone committing suicide? A terrible accident? Is that nurse trying to save him? Did he push him?

His hands lock onto your wrists. A firm grip, despite the emaciated man they belong to. Dirty fingernails and hairy forearms.

“Thanks, partner,” he mouths, eyes fluttering closed. His body goes limp in your grip. He’s just passed out on you, the crazy son of a...

Bright lights illuminate the side of your face. The screeching of the subway train becomes unbearably loud. Somewhere, a woman is screaming.

You pull.

Hard.

At the last second, you yank him up, as if lifted by the hand of God. He alights with a thump on the platform beside you, just as the train barrels through the station. Between your panting, you catch a split second glimpse of the horrified guard in the window the train, looking right at you and the stranger that were almost killed in a most violent fashion.

You put a sensible distance between yourself and your limp quarry, in case he wakes and immediately stabs you. This is New York City after all. Thanks can take many forms.

You let out the big breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding. Lights sparkle bErin’s your eyelids. As you inhale, you can appreciate the odour of the stranger beside you, which, quite frankly, is diabolical. Somewhere between horse shit and whiskey.

Oh. _Crap_. He’s still unconscious.

Your brain reboots and your nursing training takes over. It has to - you’re the only medic on the platform — and the other witnesses are still too stunned to do more than make “o” shapes with their mouths and point.

“Call 911,” you order the nearest stammering businessman with an expensive phone. He probably pays for a connection that reaches down here. He gulps and keys in the number, fingers shaking.

“Find a defibrillator,” you command a lady in an athletic outfit with sensible shoes. She is a good choice. She’ll have to run.

You hold your nose and bring yourself down to the smelly stranger’s level, listening and feeling for signs of life. His bushy beard rustles against your cheek and makes it hard to assess a carotid pulse under its tangled matt. You look, listen and feel.

All of a sudden, he bursts into life. His hands are on you, batting you away.

“Get the hell offa me!” He shouts gruffly. “What the hell are you, some kinda deviant?”

You bristle. Like a Christmas tree. From New York.

“No, actually, I’m a nurse. A nurse who just saved your life,” you retort.

He stops flapping and lies still. His eyes study you for a long moment. You’ve never felt someone look at you this way. It’s like being carefully examined into your very soul. He’s measuring you up, as a human being. You see his anger fade and the light twinkle in his eyes playfully.

“What you say, mister? You a nurse?” He asks, smiling at you wryly. “Don’t you mean a doctor?”

You can’t believe you’re having this conversation with a drunken hobo you just saved from being squashed by a train. You sigh deeply, with the patience of... well. A male nurse.

In the background, the other commuters have recovered and are going about their lives again, furiously texting their friends and Instagramming what they’ve just witnessed.

“No, I’m a nurse,” you reply. “Men can be nurses too, you know. It’s this new thing since, I dunno, 1930?”

The stranger gives you an odd look, like you’d told him the sky was green. Then he shakes his head, dusts off his threadbare jeans and sticks out a grimy hand.

“Arthur Morgan,” he offers, like it explains everything.

You think of the hand sanitiser in your pocket and take his hand in yours, shake it. He’s got a solid grip.

“Joe Wright,” you say, giving your own name, like it explains something.

“Well, Mr Wright. I truly am much obliged for your help.” He tips his hat. For someone dressed like a cowboy on Halloween, there is sincerity in the gesture. You almost go to tip yours, then think better of it. How on earth do you tip a baseball cap?

“I’ll never forget your kindness today, mister. If you ever find yourself near Rhodes, you be sure to look me up.” He gives your hand a final squeeze and uses you as an anchor to lift himself to his feet. From your vantage point you see him silhouetted by the station lights. The stranger looks like something from an old western movie, one of the ones you used to watch with your dad.

“Rhodes? Like the Greek island?”

He gives you another of those looks that makes you wonder if he hit his head and you hit your head and the whole world is concussed right now.

“Err, nah,” Arthur murmurs, brow furrowed deeply. “Not that Rhodes... anyway. Be seein’ you, Mr Wright. Take care.” He tips his hat to you one last time.

And with that he’s striding off towards the stairs and the exit. Against the glass and chrome of the station, he looks like a sepia photograph of a person from long, long ago. He moves differently, lithely, with a confident stride despite the limp on his left leg. People move out of his way like water parting before Moses. They look grey and unanimated in contrast to him. He is vivid and alive and... there is something all together very not right about this man.

Are you dreaming?

Suddenly, you feel foolish, lying down on the dirty subway floor. You jump to your, straightening out your scrub top and jeans. Without really thinking about it, you start following Arthur Morgan through the train station.

You push through the endless traffic of bodies to keep up with him, trying to reach the slipstream that he seems to be making effortlessly with his powerful stride.

He stops without warning in front of a street map. You kind of unceremoniously barrel into him. He turns and regards you with the warmest smile you’ve ever seen.

“Ah, Mr Wright, I didn’t expect to see you so soon,” he chuckles. “Y’aright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost, son.”

You reach out to touch him, just to be sure that’s not exactly what’s happening. Arthur pulls a bemused face. “What’s the matter, boy?”

“You - you -“ you stammer, trying to think of the most important question to ask first. “What were you doing in that tunnel?”

It makes Arthur smile again, which kind of warms your soul.

“Well, it’s kind of a long story, Mr Wright. I’m not sure I wanna bore you with the details.” He takes a look at your gobsmacked face. “Okay, okay, I think I owe you that much at least.”

He leans in closer and your nose wishes he hadn’t.

“I was searching for dinosaur bones.”

He’s crazy. Just another mind fuddled by drink, drugs and the city.

Except...

The way he’s looking at you, isn’t how a crazy person looks at you. He said it with the openness and plainness of “I’m going for a coffee”.

“Dinosaur bones?” You repeat.

“Yeah, they’re these big ol’ lizards used to live thousands of years ago, bigger than horses or buffalo or anything - you name it.” Arthur pulls himself upright a little, looking proud. “And I’m helping a lady professor find the bones so’s we can educate folk.”

There’s so much in his expression of childlike intensity. None of it is dishonest or insane.

“Okay...” You don’t really know what else to say.

“Say, Mr Wright, you think you can help me with one more favour? I sure would appreciate it,” Arthur asks, scratching his beard in puzzlement.

“Um, I - sure,” you acquiesce. This is the part where he asks you for a few dollars to pay for his next hit.

Arthur’s eyes twinkle. “I knew you were a good feller, Mr Wright. From the moment I saw you on that platform. Now, this here map? You think you help me get out of this here fancy station and find Valentine?”

“Valentine?” You’ve never heard of it.

“Uh-huh,” he says, giving you a look like you should know the place intimately. “It’s a small town in New Hanover. Not too far from the Grizzlies.”

None of those names ring a bell with you and it must show on your face. Arthur changes his stance, hands on his hips. “You new around these parts or somethin’, son?”

You scratch your stubble, pondering.

“No, Arthur, I’m from New York, born and bred here. My family’s lived here for generations, since my great-grandfather moved here in 1920.” This makes Arthur’s brow furrow again and he gives you a funny sideways glance.

“Mr Wright, I hope you don’t take offence at my asking... you don’t smoke opium, do you?”

You do take offence. You’re a New Yorker, for Christ’s sake.

“No, Arthur, I do not smoke opium, and I should be the one ask you that question! What kind of crazy asshole just wanders down a New York subway track looking for dinosaur bones?”

The irritation and impatience in your tone spills over and Arthur looks a little bit shocked, a flash of hurt behind his eyes. He tips his head forward, hiding the emotion behind the brim of his hat.

“I - I dint mean to upset you, Mr Wright. I - I’m just trying to find my way home.” He kind of shrinks inwardly. You immediately regret every word that you said. Despite his musk, you want to put your arms around the cowboy and tell him that it’ll be okay.

“Hey, hey,” you coax. “Arthur? I’m sorry. I want to help you. But I think you’re a bit confused.” You remember vaguely what they taught you in nursing college about caring for patients with dementia, alcohol-induced memory loss, delirium.

Right. First things first. Reorientation. Place and time. 

“Arthur, look at me,” you plead. His hat remains low, shielding his eyes. “Arthur? Everything is going to be okay. Arthur Morgan?”

Arthur lifts his head up at his full name. You feel a little bit like a protective parent at this point. His green eyes are a misty, uncertain forest.

“Listen closely. You’re in New York City. The year is 2019.”

Arthur’s face is a collage of shock, disbelief, incredulity... He takes off his old Stenson and holds it with two hands in front of his body, like a battered shield.

“I’m going to take you somewhere safe. The hospital. The police. They’ll be able to help you.”

“No!” Arthur shouts. “No lawmen!” He paces on the spot, stops occasionally, looks at you to say something and then starts pacing again. Doing laps between a vending machine and a neon sign advertising some overpriced trainers. 

“How can it be 2019? It was 1899 yesterday, see?” He fumbles through his bag and takes out a crumpled journal, flips through the pages to what must be the correct spot and opens it for you to see.

In swooping black ink written by a calloused hand, is written the title 5th May 1899. You can make out a few sketches on the adjacent page: a deer, a plant that could be foxglove, a tunnel dug into the side of a mountain.

“See?” He demands, pointing at the tunnel. “I ain’t never been to New York. I was staying in Annesburg when I met that lady professor - the one I told you about. She - she said the old mine there might have some bones and I should go have a look. I did, that’s the mine I went into. I was hunting about in there for a spell and - maybe I got lost. My torch went out and I couldn’t see a darn thing. I must’ve wandered down the wrong tunnel...” Arthur rubs his eyes, suddenly looking very, very tired. “The next thing I remember is a bright light and asking you to help me out.”

You don’t know quite what to say, but you find yourself believing every word. The word of a cowboy from the year 1899 in modern day New York. It sounds totally ridiculous, but in your bones you know that he’s telling the truth.

“Mr Wright?” Arthur asks, his hat tipped low. “Pardon me for asking, but... This isn’t some kinda trick, is it?”

Arthur Morgan brings his green eyes up to meet yours. His eyelashes are wet. A rogue tear has carved its way down his cheek, clearing a solitary track through the grime there.It doesn’t look right, seeing this tall, rough and gruff cowboy crying.

“No, Arthur. I promise. I’m not tricking you.” You show him the date on your smartphone for good measure. He blinks hard. His shoulders slump, the posture of a man defeated.

“Where’s my family, mister... Mr Wright?” He whispers. “Tilly, Mary-Beth, Karen, Abigail, Sadie, Miss Grimshaw, Molly, Uncle, Bill, John, Charles, Javier, Lenny, Sean, little Jack, Hosea... Dutch.”

He says the names like a mantra, like a lifeline. He says the names like they’re the only thing holding him to this world.

You sigh. You open up your arms for the mourning cowboy. He kind of collapses into the embrace, hiding his face in your shoulder. His hat falls off, rolling on its rim for a few metres. It gets trodden on once or twice by a few absent-minded Wall Street businessmen that walk past you without even looking up.

You break off the hug gently. You wander over to the Stenson hat. Pick it up. Dust it off. Walk back to your new friend. Hand it back to him. Say -

“I don’t know, Arthur. I’m so sorry. I don’t know.”

Arthur swallows hard and wipes his face with a sooty sleeve.

“I - I’m sorry for making such a fool of myself, Mr Wright. Crying like a goddamn baby. Jesus.” He looks bashful now, tucking a hand behind his head. “I - I dunno... I dunno what I’m ‘spose to do now.”

“That’s okay,” you say, putting all of your heart into the words. “You’re not alone, Arthur. Everything is going to be okay.”


End file.
